


Relative Positioning

by liodain



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Boot Worship, Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw implied, Flynn Fairwind/Tandred Proudmoore implied, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Humiliation, Power Play, well that was awkward
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:00:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liodain/pseuds/liodain
Summary: Tandred's not above being petty, especially when someone's trying to push him around.
Relationships: Tandred Proudmoore/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	Relative Positioning

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one 😏 #twitteroth may or may not be responsible.
> 
> (For the "power play" square on my [SoK](https://i.imgur.com/qOhxUMb.png) card, though it's living in the free kink square for now.)

"Again, I'm telling you it's necessary."

"And again, I'm telling you no." Tandred, stood with feet apart and arms folded over his chest, found his temper was being sorely tested. "My ship is not for freighting." 

"I think you'll find it's King Anduin's ship." 

Mathias Shaw had leaned casually against the desk the dominated his stateroom throughout this pointless argument. His arms were similarly folded and he was taking pains to look down his nose at Tandred, despite being several inches and more than a few ranks too short for it. The arrogance of the bastard, to order Tandred here as though he were nothing but a common marine, and then to continue to address him no better. Small wonder Kul Tiras hadn't sought to rejoin the Alliance of their own volition, what with weaselly sods like him throwing their weight around.

Flynn's friendly disrespect was one thing. They had history, camaraderie, more. But this—he was done taking it from this—this mainlander, this throatcutter, this Alliance _spymaster_ , who, in Tandred's opinion, likely wasn't even a proper officer, despite his ridiculous moustache and air of superiority. Done with it. Even if Flynn liked him.

And Tidemother knew what all that was about. Ever since he got back and he'd realised what was going on, the knowledge had sat like a stone in him; one that had only weighed heavier and heavier as he'd noticed Shaw noticing Flynn's infatuation. It was a particular agony, to desire a man who desired someone else.

Shaw'd had no compunctions about taking advantage. He'd sent Flynn out on increasingly dangerous missions for their precious mineral. Their precious, highly volatile, mineral.

"I understand you're upset," Shaw said with infuriating dispassion, "but with Captain Fairwind out of commission for the foreseeable, we need someone to who can reliably keep up a steady haul of azerite. And that someone is you."

Out of commission. Tandred drew himself up, lifting his chin. Flynn's ship was out of commission. Flynn himself had spent the last few days receiving the focused attention of several healers. He set that thought aside as best he could. There was already enough threatening his composure here. 

"I'd remind you I am Fleet Captain of the Kul Tiran navy, and a scion of House Proudmoore." With some effort, he purged all heat from his tone. If he had a point to make, he was going to make it calmly and with authority. "I am not the Alliance's errand boy. I'm sure you're used to Flynn wagging his tail like besotted puppy at the slightest scrap of approval from you, Master Shaw, but trust me, I am not so enamoured."

Shaw raised a brow. "Implying something?"

"Could be I am."

"Fairwind's motivation revolves entirely around his coinpurse, I assure you."

"If you think I believe that, you're as stupid as that moustache makes you look."

Shaw looked vaguely taken aback. "I'd have thought you above petty insults, Captain Proudmoore."

"Then you've not spent much time around sailors," Tandred said.

"Well, which is it?" Shaw said. "Either I'm bedding Fairwind or I'm not. You can't have it both ways."

This colossal prick. He'd had enough of it. Every one of his better instincts cautioned him, and a few of his worse ones, too, but he wasn't listening. Too sharp a sting to his pride, and his heart. 

Tandred took a swing.

Shaw caught it; in the same instant his foot hit the back of Tandred's legs and sent him crashing forward. His arm twisted up behind his back as he staggered to his knees, locked straight in Shaw's sinewy grip. He braced himself on his free forearm, his face inches from the floor. Inches from the toe of Shaw's boot. His breath misted its brass toecap.

"People don't have a lot to say about you," Shaw said, low and clipped. "But your good nature is usually remarked upon. I don't think they're mistaken but I'd like to see some evidence of it when you deal with me. Are we clear?"

Tandred swallowed. The toecap cleared as his breath evaporated, then clouded over again as he exhaled hard.

He couldn't be asking what Tandred thought he was.

Shaw adjusted his grip. Tandred's shoulder burned with the strain, his muscles complaining about the uncommon angle of it. He seemed to be waiting for something, but he couldn't possibly expect that Tandred would acquiesce to this. Probably trying to provoke more lip out of him so he could further assert himself.

Tandred was gripped with such fierce indignation he might actually do it to prove him wrong. It wouldn't be the first ill-advised move he'd made today.

So he bent his head and pressed his lips to the toe of Shaw's boot.

He felt Shaw's startlement in a jolt against his mouth. The grip on his arm faltered, and the tension in the room shifted so dramatically Tandred's ears all but popped. 

Ah, not that, then, Tandred thought. And then: got you, though.

Feigning indifference now wouldn't be very convincing, so he planted another kiss on Shaw's boot instead. Further up, on the bridge of his foot. The leather was soft and supple, and thin enough he could feel the flex of tendons when Shaw tensed. 

Tasted as he'd expect a boot to taste. As long as he didn't think about what Shaw did for a living and how many people's last moments might've spattered onto them, he could tolerate it.

Shaw said nothing, but did let go of his arm. Tandred opted for the all or nothing approach, cupped his narrow ankle and licked from the tip of his toe and all the way up the sweep of his shin, tongue bumping over the decorative leather tooling. Flynn would think this was was hilarious, no doubt. Tandred imagined the incredulity on this face as he caught his teeth on the top edge of Shaw's boot, and ventured a defiant glare upward.

Shaw wasn't even looking at him. His gaze was fixed a mile beyond his stateroom wall, his mouth pursed, colour high on his cheeks. In any other circumstances Tandred would say he was furious, but he had a rather unique point of view at the moment, and Shaw's uniform was a notably snug fit.

Got you, indeed.

If he was doing this, the least Shaw could do was pay attention. Tandred gave his calf a swat. Shaw started, then glanced down at him. His brow was damp with sweat. Tandred reassessed. Flynn would probably think this was hot.

That sent a flush through him. Oh, well. In for a penny, if it came to that.

"Are you quite done?" Shaw said, though all the bite had gone from his tone. His hands flexed restlessly at his sides.

"You tell me."

"Take care with how you proceed from here." 

How to proceed at all, never mind the rest. What would Flynn do? Defuse the situation with a joke and a laugh. Tandred shrugged and sat back. His anger had receded some, but not completely. He settled his weight and let his legs spread with it, to see if that would lather him up some more.

A crease deepened between Shaw's eyebrows. "I see," he said. He shifted his foot so it rested against Tandred's inner thigh. "And is this your idea of an apology?"

Maybe Flynn would think the situation was funny. Or he'd find it titillating. Or both. Or maybe he'd think it was a compromise. A way forward. Tandred turned the idea over a few times. Ah, if only Shaw weren't such an _arse_. 

"No," Tandred said, surly and not afraid to show it. "But it might be a truce. I suppose."

Shaw nudged at him with his toe. Tandred leant into it, just to be disagreeable. Shaw sighed and ran a hand back through his hair. "Get up," he muttered. "You really are as bad as each other."

Tandred stuttered mid-rise, his knees already bruising. Shaw helped him the rest of the way to his feet and adjusted the lay of his coat for him in a rather stiff display of solicitude. He was avoiding Tandred's eyes. It was striking how it changed his demeanour. 

"I know what this was about," Shaw said, more gently than Tandred had thought likely of him. "I really would have to be stupid to miss it. The two of you. I can only suggest you speak with him, Captain Proudmoore, instead of taking it out on me."

Who might have been doing the taking out on whom could be yet another point of contention here. Tandred bit his tongue and bent to retrieve his hat, then turned to the door with shrug. 

A bitterness welled in him. "What is there to say?" 

"Quite a lot, after this." Shaw sounded faintly surprised. "I should think." He gave Tandred a long, inscrutable look, then glanced away again. A muscle flexed in his jaw. "I didn't want him to get hurt. But this is the nature of war."

"I know," Tandred said tightly. Of course he knew the nature of war. Everyone did; the way you relentlessly lost people you loved to it, one way or another. Nobody wanted it. Uncharitable to imagine Shaw would either, so he'd give him that.

"I'm going to see him tomorrow evening," Shaw said. "Should you want to… schedule around me."

Tandred closed his eyes briefly and hoped his expression wasn't too caustic. "Mayhaps," he said, and touched two fingers to his hat. He opened the cabin door. "Mayhaps not. Master Shaw."

"Captain Proudmoore," he heard Shaw reply, sounding formal, if little distant, as Tandred closed the door behind him.


End file.
